There, There
by Radioheaded
Summary: It was a drunken mistake. Right?
1. Drinking Alone

The vodka that burnt Wilson's throat cost $6.99 for 42 ounces and came in a plastic bottle.

It tasted like nail polish remover.

He drank it like a college student, swallowing it quickly, barely wincing as the aftertaste set his hair on end.

Wilson wanted to be numb, and the vodka he was certain could double as carpet cleaner was doing the trick quite nicely. After five shots, taste disappeared, making the process of ingesting the vodka that much easier. The liquid fire now slid easily past his anesthetized taste buds and into his system. As the tenth shot made its way past his lips, the night dissolved into an amalgam of thoughts and shapes, of colors and textures that would leave no imprints; no trace of the night would be left in a mind that was so insistent on forgetting.

An impatient tingle tugged at Wilson, urging him to do something. The hotel room around Wilson mimicked a merry-go-round as he realized his need to go to the bathroom. The nondescript wall paper twirled up and down and round and round, leaving Wilson to cling to the walls, using his hands as a guide. The cheap polyurethane door frame of the bathroom entrance appeared under his fingertips. Half-closed eyes that refused to focus on stationary objects spied the toilet. Wilson's fingers fumbled with his belt in what was eventually a futile endeavor. Finally, he unzipped his slacks and unbuttoned his boxers, making sure not to harm anything on the way out. Wilson steadied himself on the wall with one hand while a mixture that was 10 waste and 90 vodka poured from him.

A knock sounded at the door while Wilson carefully slid himself back into his boxers.

"Who's there?" He called, trying to make the words come out even and casual.

"Wilson, let me in." A low voice snapped back; the tone was of someone used to giving orders, a voice that wasn't questioned or second-guessed. Wilson thought he knew the voice, but from where?

When no reply came from Wilson, the presence on the other side of the door sighed. A card was inserted into the lock of the door, and a multi-toned click signaled that the door was unlocked.

_Beep beep. Beep beep. _Wilson mimicked in his mind, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The smile deepened the slight laugh lines around his mouth—_My pretty mouth_. Wilson abandoned the beeping door to examine his mouth. He traced the outline of his lips with his hand and then his tongue. His fingertips generated heat, which his tongue absorbed. His lips were left cool against the air of the hotel.

i The hotel/i Wilson noted that he was, in fact, not alone in his room—and that whomever had joined him had not yet tried to find him. His hand slipped gingerly from the wall and he swayed for a moment, gauging his ability to walk. i Must have had more than I thought/i observed Wilson as his footing was lost. The body that was supposed to support him was liquid; everything flowed in slow motion, unsteady, unreliable, about to crash. Even through the haze of alcohol, reflex moved Wilson's arms to his face to brace for the impending impact.

……Which never came. As Wilson's liquid self plunged toward grey tile that had once been a cheerful white, a pair of arms grasped the dead weight of his torso. Wilson relaxed into this force, this being that was saving him from the harsh embrace of the ground. But something was wrong; he was still falling, but slower. Impact came, and it was flesh that supported his head and absorbed the full force of his weight.

"Goddamn it, Wilson!" That same voice from behind the door gasped. It was different this time; the voice was thick, layered in pain. He was roughly shoved from the embrace of his cushion, landing on his back. The room still moved, so Wilson lay as still as he could and hoped he could get off the ride soon. It was beginning to make him sick. The bile in his throat rose threateningly, but that same pair of arms grasped him once more, this time pushing him into a sitting position.

"Close your eyes, Jimmy," the voice said coldly. The paradoxical command aimed at Wilson was meant to help him, but the voice that delivered it was apathetic. Unconcerned. The actions undercut the words, and Wilson knew this, even in his drunken state. He focused on the origin of the words, the cold tone that stole the laughter from Wilson's inebriated mind, leaving him embarrassed.

The lips that doused Wilson in cold reality were thin. The bottom was bleeding slightly; a small trail made its way down a stubbled chin.

"You're hurt," The voice that emanated from Wilson wasn't his; it was thick, slurred. Sad. An uncoordinated hand reached up to touch the river of red coming from the lip. It made contact with the face like sandpaper and slowly brushed away the blood. Without thinking, the fingers moved to his own mouth. The tang of salt hit his tongue as his gaze traveled upward.

A blue brighter than anything he'd ever seen entranced him; it was the sky and a Crayola crayon and the sea on a stormy day; the blue surrounded him and he immersed himself in its calm, cool depths. His lips moved with a will of their own until again salt broke through to his own mouth. His tongue ran over his own lip, then into the open mouth of the other.

Cool met hot and transferred its heat until the mouths moving in and out and around each other were the same temperature. Wilson pressed against the body near his, thinking of his good fortune.

Shortly after he stopped for air, Wilson lost consciousness.


	2. It Goes Away

The first clue that Wilson was still intoxicated upon waking came in the form of vertigo. Sleep withdrew its smoky tendrils from his mind slowly, in stages. When finally his surroundings had disappeared, along with his dream companions, Wilson was left with the realization that he was in a hotel room that was still spinning. His senses played tricks on him; his prone body told his brain it was falling, sinking into the bed._ Open your eyes. _Wilson realized that sight would help correct the alcohol's lasting effect on his balance.

His eyes refused to acknowledge his brain's request at first; stuck shut from dried moisture, they gave only after being rubbed gently—and when that didn't work, peeled open. Light hit the russet irises; before his pupils had a chance to contract the lids fell down again, like a window hit by a gust of wind. The sensual liquid feeling from the night before had abandoned him, leaving every synapse throbbing. The pain, tinged with nausea rippled through his body like a stone hitting water; he counteracted this by curling into a ball and praying that the spinning would eventually stop—and that he wouldn't need to go the bathroom any time soon.

Wilson's mind drifted; eventually he found himself focusing on his own breathing. The even breaths were loud and deep; they reminded him of late nights, when he couldn't sleep. His wife's breathing, so similar to his, would comfort him, relax him; let him slip into a state to match hers where his breathing would unconsciously mimic her rhythm, leaving them entwined—the only way they could be anymore.

_ Ex-wife; _his mind chastised. _Someone else listens to her sleep now.  
_

Reality began to slide away from Wilson's still drunken mind; muscles wound tight to keep from vomiting began to relax into the coarse fabric of the bed. The disinfectant of the sheets filled Wilson's nose and mouth as he buried his face in a pillow, soft from overuse.

"Wilson." The voice that called his name made no effort to speak softy; instead it was loud and firm. Commanding. Wilson cautiously raised the eyelid of one bloodshot eye, looking for the source of the noise that bore into his scull.

"House. What're you doing here?" With his eyes closed once more, Wilson instinctively reached for House. In his pathetic state, he had reverted to an infant's grasping reflex.

House's voice was the hand of a parent; impossibly large and safe—comforting in a way that couldn't be explained in words. The fingers that reached out, grappling against empty air hit something they didn't expect—something cylindrical and cool where warmth and softness should have been. His hand followed the object as it was guided toward his own mouth.

"Drink this, Wilson." The tip of the object—the glass—was pressed against Wilson's lips. Fingers burrowed against the side of his head, pulling his hair slightly until they made their way to the base of his neck. They pulled, quickly but gently and he was lifted. The glass tipped as he was moved forward and the water made its way past his lips. The sandpaper that was his tongue was released from the roof of his mouth as the cool liquid

made its way down his throat; Wilson needed more—had to have more. His body ached for the water, demonstrated by his noisy swallows. The glass was all too quickly emptied and removed from Wilson's lips, who cried out wordlessly at its absence. His head was lowered back down to its sterile pillow. On impact, Wilson's eyes opened and met the judgmental gaze of his best friend.

"God, you're pathetic." House's face was animated with his opinion of Wilson. His mouth was twisted in a sneer, baring straight white teeth in a sort of snarl. Eyes that once held laughter were murky, shut off, and refused to meet Wilson's glazed stare. The body language of the older man screamed repulsion; communicated the desire to leave and forget about his alcohol-poisoned friend.

"I know." Wilson's breathing quickened and caught in his throat. "I'm worthless."

Wilson's gazed moved away from House's face; he didn't want to know how disappointed his friend was.

House looked on as a pained expression flashed through Wilson's eyes, then moved to his mouth. The younger man's lips became a thin line, a gash of pink against a stark face.

"Oh, God. Think I'm gonna—" Before the words could cross the threshold of his mouth into the space between himself and House, Wilson turned on his side and vomited. As the remnants of yesterday's intake—mostly liquid—made their way out of him, strong hands gripped his back and arm, rubbing softly as the muscles of his stomach contracted. Wilson looked at the floor to see the mess he'd made, but instead saw a large bucket, into which most of his waste had gone.

"Always a thinker,"

House smiled at that. "Well, you know me, James. Thinking of ingenious ways to keep my friend from getting sick everywhere tops my 'to do' list." His reply was gruff, sarcastic, as he meant for it to be. Pitying Wilson was not to be done. Any compassion shown, any comfort given could dredge up veiled memories from the night before. And _that _could not happen. House didn't know quite what had happened—or how.

When Wilson's voice broke at work—trying to talk to House about his wife, of course, he had just ignored him. He'd get over it. Get married again. That's what Wilson _did _--so why did he need House to tell him that?

House had laughed at him when he showed up at the apartment asking to stay. "You really think I'm _ that _ kind of friend? Go cry yourself to sleep at a hotel." Wilson had winced at the words, and House did too, remembering his harsh tone; his unfeeling gaze.

At the time, House's actions hadn't warranted a second thought. It wasn't until the next day, when Wilson didn't show up for work, that he began to think he may have been a bit harsh.

Pulling Wilson's credit card account was easy; convincing the desk clerk at the hotel was as well. He was Wilson's doctor, he explained. He needed to see his patient. It was urgent.

House wasn't prepared for the state in which he had found Wilson. Once knocking proved futile, he entered the room to find his friend in the bathroom, swaying slightly. His trousers were half-unzipped. Sluggish fingers moved to correct this, but the task was apparently too difficult. Wilson's eyes were red-rimmed and glazed. They ran over him, but didn't stop. Looked right through him as a tremble sent the younger man hurtling towards the unforgiving floor.

Before he could think logically, House was under Wilson, cushioning his impact. James' weight landed squarely on him and then they were both falling. The breath was forced from his he cushioned his friend's impact. He shoved the man off, trying to force air into his paralyzed lungs. When breathing was no longer out of the question, he focused on the task at hand. Wilson was on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Laughing at nothing in particular.

_God, you're going to owe me.  
_

House's grimace deepened as he slid over to James, lifting him up into a sitting position. Not a moment too soon—Wilson's skin had become a pale sea-foam green; while the color may be soothing on walls, it was not meant for human skin. Wilson's unfocused eyes opened and met his. Wilson smiled slightly, and an instant later his mouth met House's. Surprise formed a perfect 'O' on House's lips, which Wilson took as an invitation. A foreign, warm tongue moved confidently in his mouth, taking the time to massage every crevice of the warm cavern.

House's hands moved to push Wilson away, to get out of the embrace, the hotel, the town, but James' arms encircled him, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. Hands slid up his back and began to caress his neck. The tiny hairs their stood up and waves of pleasure went through him; the sudden strain of his jeans only endorsed the fact that he was extremely turned on. But—he couldn't. He shouldn't. Wilson was drunk—and straight. So was he. Right?

He extricated his mouth from Wilson's, who looked at him once more before sighing slightly, then passing out cold.

_ Something tells me he may not remember this.  
_


	3. Wake

Wilson shifted on the bed; sleep's thin veil was beginning to dissipate. A finger prodded his shoulder a few times, hard, in the same spot.

_That's going to bruise. _Wilson's now sober mind noted. He sat up and paused for a moment, perched on the side of the bed. When the room remained static and the urge to throw up wasn't to be found, he turned toward the direction of the pokes.

"House," he began, his tone undercut with the low grown of a warning. "Stop poking me."

"Sober yet Jimmy? Or are you still worthless?" James received one last poke before House broke contact, bringing the hand to his own face, where he scrubbed at it roughly, as if he wanted to rid his skin of some contamination.

"Worthless?" James squinted, trying to make sense of the comment. It wasn't directed at him as an insult; more of a question. i What does he mean by—Oh, God, my head. /i Wilson's attempt to piece together House's enigmatic question was interrupted by the swift introduction of pain. A pounding, dull pain that was punishment for his night of overindulgence.

"Headache?" House's voice was sickly sweet; it carried the concern of a mother hen checking on her children. He was enjoying Wilson's pain, that much was obvious.

"I'm fine," Wilson replied, not willing to give House the satisfaction of admitting he was in pain. "What do you mean, worthless?"

"You. Last night. I said you were pathetic; you agreed, then raised me a 'worthless.'" House's eyes were bright, shining with laughter and malicious intentions.

Wilson prayed he hadn't spilled anything more embarrassing than his deficit of self-esteem.

House turned away, reaching for his cane. He stood up slowly, and Wilson realized how much pain he must have been in, presumably sleeping either on the floor or in a chair not conducive to chronic leg pain.

"House, are you al—"

"Shut up, Jimmy. Get your stuff together. We're getting out of here."

"I can stay at your apartment?" James got up quickly—too quickly. Spots blocked his vision, while a roaring sound obstructed his hearing. House watched as Jimmy's eyes rolled back, and for the second time in as many days dove for his friend.

This catch was luckier. House managed to grab Wilson and push him toward the bed. He landed on top of the younger man, legs and arms tangled.

"Think—Think I got up too fast." James said softly, vibrating House's head, which lay on Wilson's chest.

"Wow, someone gets a gold star." As sharp pain ran through House's leg as he tried to extricate himself from Wilson.

"You've got to help me here," House finally spat. "I don't know about you, but my torso has no interest in staying between your legs."

"What, not interested in some bonding time?" Wilson smirked, but then arched his back to free House's hands. House fell away, but used to wall to stand up. Wilson leaned over and retrieved his friend's fallen cane, which was snatched away so fast, he wondered if he'd actually been holding it.

"Now, get up. Slowly. I don't want a repeat performance." House emphasized his words by walking to the door. If Wilson fell now, he'd do so alone. He stood up, slightly shaky, but able to walk. The only things he'd brought to the hotel were a briefcase and coat, which were on a chair by the door. He gathered these and followed his friend into the elevator across the hall.

The music inside the enclosed space was too loud; it pounded in time with Wilson's throbbing head while he fought to keep his expression serene. Neutral. The elevator chimed brightly as it hit the ground floor. Wilson stepped out quickly, grateful that the lobby played soft music that didn't make his head feel like a drum kit.

He paid his bill and took his keys out of his jacket pocket. House grabbed his wrist.

"You're not driving." Wilson recognized the stubborn look of his friend. His jaw was set; his eyes moved back and forth quickly, matching Wilson's gaze.

"House, I'm fine. Just let me drive."

"If you don't give me the keys in five seconds, I will announce to the lobby that you took advantage of me last night—in the biblical sense."

"But, House—I didn't do any—"

House tapped his cane on the floor a few times.

"Cripple, remember? House's eyes lost their smirk and went round with innocence. "I couldn't defend myself; he took my cane. And then—and then he force me to go—"

The keys fell into House's outstretched palm with a clatter. It was the ring of Wilson's defeat.

"You're an ass."

The hotel was forty minutes from House's apartment. The ride was silent, punctuated only by music—House's preference, of course. As The Who began their tale of Baba O'Rielly, Wilson tried to recover the events of the night before.

He'd called in sick to work, then found a hotel. He laid in bed until about six, when he decided it was high time to get wrecked. He'd gone out and gottn the vodka, putting him back in his hotel room at around 6:35. By 7, he was probably completely drunk. So when had House shown up?

Wilson concentrated, and bits of the night began to return to him. He remembered….getting up to go the bathroom, which proved more difficult than he'd anticipated. He had made it, but started to fall after he flushed. Wilson's brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his hair. He felt no bumps or bruises, no pain—except self-induced.

i Did someone catch me/i Then, slowly, the events of the night began to unfurl in his mind. House's voice outside the door—then House in the hotel room. Asking him if he needed help. Where was House? His eyes wouldn't—couldn't focus; only his friend's voice made his presence known. And then—he fell. But, it must have been on House. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson watched House's almost imperceptive wince. The older man's fingers rubbed a spot on his arm, concealed by his long shirt.

Wilson went back to his thoughts. He had to know what else had happened—what else he might have done. He was on the bathroom floor after House caught him—he remembered feeling sick, beginning to gag. Then, hands lifted him up. The nausea was quelled for awhile, and he embraced House.

_ He EMBRACED House?!_

Memories that had been sought after were now things to run away from; unfortunately, Wilson could no longer forget the perfect balance, the equilibrium that was his and Greg's mouth moving around each other, exploring uncharted territory. Wilson flushes as the memory triggered latent arousal; he moved his jacket to his lap. He flushed a deep raspberry— _ Am I gay?_

Straight men didn't have reactions like this to their best friend. They wouldn't want a drunken mistake to move any further—but he did.

Wilson was too wrapped up in his own crumbling psyche to notice the car had moved to the shoulder of the road and come to a stop.

House's voice pulled him from his reveries.

"We need to talk. Now."


	4. Mr Misery

A/N: The song is 'Miss Misery,' by Elliott Smith. Enjoy, and please review!

"I don't think we have anything to talk about." Wilson's voice was a pretty strong imitation of normal. No wavering, no stuttering. But House was like a bloodhound that had just caught a fox's scent. There was no going back now.

"Wilson," House's voice almost growled for his attention. "You're flushed. Since it's December, you're either feeling those pesky side effects of menopause, or you're embarrassed. And, for some reason, your jacket went from the floor to your lap—maybe—"

"Fine," Wilson's thin voice replied, heavy with resignation. Humiliation pressed down on him, quickening his pulse and deepening his flushed cheeks. "But not here. Let's go to your apartment."

The sound of the engine turning over signaled House's acquiescence, for which Wilson was grateful. He shifted in his seat, turning as far away from House as he could. The cool window supported him, bringing down the heat in his face. The scenery rushing past caught his attention, but House's profile could still be seen out of the corner of his eye. Wilson sighed silently and let his eyelids fall. They felt gummy, grainy, as if the winter wind had kicked sand into their delicate folds. Ignoring his physical discomfort, Wilson turned his thoughts on the situation at hand. What was he going to do?

_Such an idiot. _His inner voice snarled, turning against him. _ You're ruining everything, just like you always do. You really _are _worthless.  
_

The car turned a sharp 90 degrees and slowed down. If Wilson opened his eyes, they would be greeted by House's apartment. A minute passed, and neither man had taken off their seatbelt—let alone made a move to exit the awkward confines of the car.

"Come on." House commanded, reaching into the backseat for his cane. He got up rigidly, still in pain from his lack of adequate sleeping conditions. Wilson waited a beat, watched as House disappeared into the building before getting out of his car. The door to House's apartment was open; Wilson paused in the door frame, listening. A dull thump sounded—House dropping his bag and jacket. Light shuffling, an uneven gate headed away, further into the apartment.

Wilson slid into the apartment quietly, trying not to make a sound. It was like a game of hunter and hunted; each man tried to stay removed, to abstractly gauge the position of the other. But in this game, who was the hunter?

_House isn't homophobic,_ Wilson mused, _because homophobia is ignorance_. _And if House is anything, he's not ignorant. But he hates to be vulnerable. Wait. If he's vulnerable about this, defensive about what happened, does that mean he's hiding something? _Wilson's mind was reeling. What had seemed like a humiliation—something he would never be able to live down, had become a situation of prospects; of potential. He was standing on the edge of a precipice with his back pressed against a wall; he could take no steps back, but the idea of forward momentum left him dumb with panic. He could lose his friend if he chose to move forward; the same scenario could occur if he stayed static, stagnant.

House came from the kitchen then, two glasses half-filled with amber liquid balanced in his left hand.

"Help me fake it through the day with some help from Johnny Walker red." House said grimly, handing Wilson a glass.

"What?" House speaking in code did nothing for Wilson's frazzled nerves.

"Nothing. Drink." With that, House's head jerked back; the move was old, familiar—so akin to his Vicodin throw down. Wilson paused for a moment, questioning his friend's motives before following suit; the alcohol tingled, warming his stomach.

It sure beat the vodka.

_Is he getting me buzzed on purpose? _House would have known Wilson hadn't eaten. Was this a way to lubricate the situation?

"Hair of the dog," Wilson coughed when he realized House was staring at him expectantly.

"Lightweight." House leaned his cane against the wall and limped to the couch. The heavy leather audibly relaxed under his weight, and he motioned for Wilson to join him.

"So, Wilson. Do I need to start going to Glaad meetings?"

The blood that was lazily pulsing warmth through Wilson's body paused for a moment.

_ Fuck.  
_

Realizing its error, the heart that had been stilled by House's direct words beat twice as fast, leaving Wilson dizzy with intoxication and unease.

"I—I don't know what to say to you." He sat on the love seat directly opposite House, though he didn't feel its support. His mind told him he was still standing, the room was spinning wildly on its access, pushing blood to his brain and leaving him breathless. "I've never…done that with a man before."

"Fine. Then answer me this. Was it a drunken mistake? Or was it something else we need to deal with?"

Wilson couldn't breathe; the air wasn't coming in fast enough. His hands scratched at his collar, loosening the knot of his tie, but it didn't help. Carbon dioxide began to build up in his blood; consciousness was abandoning its hold on him.

Hands were suddenly on him, on his face and under his back, pulling him up from the precarious edge of the couch; he didn't know he'd fallen. The hand on his back joined the other on his face, and dimly, he heard House saying something. It sounded like an apology, but why—

The synapses in Wilson's face fired white-hot as House's calloused had connected with his cheek. The hyperventilation ceased immediately. House's tactics, though sometimes brutal, were usually spot-on. Wilson tried to vocalize his pain, but was silenced.

By House's lips.

The man's kiss was the antithesis of his personality; where House was all sharp angles and abstract calculations, his mouth was warm and wet and soft. It was slow—not like the quick tic of House's mind; it took its time coaxing the responses it desired.

And respond Wilson did.

For once, his over-anxious, dramatic monologue was shut down. He was overpowered by his _ need _to kiss House, to get closer to a man who had, just a short time ago, been a friend. And a bad one, at that. Wilson pulled away for a moment, shyly gazing down into his lap. His mouth ached a little; House's scruff had left his lips and chin chapped. He was marked.

"You ok?" Wilson's gaze finally met the deep blue stare of his friend, and what he saw scared him. House looked at him hungrily—lust was practically spelled out in those azure irises.

"I—I'm sorry. I can't; I don't know what—what came over—I have to go," Wilson stumbled over his words as he rose. He had to leave. Had to get away. Away, away, away. Away from House, away from his ex-wives. Away from love. For Wilson, all relationships ended with him alone. And maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

Like a newborn colt, Wilson's legs shook as he grabbed his keys from the end table and fled the apartment. In his haste, he had forgotten his jacket; he was forced to brave the winter cold with nothing but a long-sleeve shirt.

"Shit," he whispered, unlocking his car. He climbed in and started the Volvo, not waiting to turn on the heat as he sped away from House's apartment. He drove, not caring where he was going, until he approached a park. The car seemed to pull over on its own, and he sat, watching his breath escape him in wispy clouds. His mind raced with the events of the past few days. What was happening? Where had his life gone? One minute he was a married, straight man; the next he was a divorcee making out with his best friend.

_ I must be some kind of masochist.  
_

Wilson sat in the car for twenty minutes before he realized he hadn't turned the heat on. The air began to relax his clenched muscles—all but his stomach, which seemed to contract harder with the influx of warmth. _Oh, God;_ Wilson opened the door just in time for the arrival of regurgitated whiskey and stomach acid to hit the cold ground, where it began to freeze immediately. He spat out the acrid taste, promising himself he'd never drink again. When, after a few moments, it seemed like his stomach had given up, Wilson pulled himself back into the car. He moved his seat back a little and turned on the radio, which greeted him with a sad, sweet melody.

I'll fake it through the day  
with some help  
from Johnny Walker red  
Send the poisoned rain down the drain  
to put bad thoughts in my head

The song sounded familiar, but Wilson couldn't place it. He sat silently, listening to this song of regret, and let his confusion wash over him.

Next door TVs flashing blue  
frames on the wall  
It's a comedy of errors, you see;  
it's about taking a fall  
to vanish into oblivion  
it's easy to do  
and I try to be  
but you know me I come back when you want me to  
Do you miss me--Miss Misery--  
like you say you do?

The song ended, and Wilson was left with a single thought.

_ What the _fuck _am I doing?_


	5. Author's note

Hey guys……I'm writing this author's note to let you know I haven't abandoned the story; my computer crashed and it won't be back for about two weeks. I promise a huge update when my evil computer comes back!


	6. Please, Please Me

The warmth of Wilson's forehead flowed into the cool leather of the steering wheel upon which it rested. The alcohol flowed out of his system steadily, leaving him painfully sober. Embarrassment could have replaced his blood, it flowed so strong and continuously through his veins; it washed over every cell, leaving nervous energy in its wake.

Unbridled thoughts made their way through his mind so quickly that time was forgotten; the coughing jerks of the car underneath him went unnoticed. It was the stillness of the engine, the quiet of the vents that broke through Wilson's self-absorption.

_ Wonderful. _Wilson sat back into the seat of his dead car, slamming his hand into the steering wheel. It hit back, leaving him angrier than before, now only with throbbing digits. _What am I going to do?_

A sharp rap sounded on the window, allowing Wilson the ability to feel every nerve in his body. Long fingers wound around a key that was presently tapping a steady beat on the glass; House stared at him, like a child looking at an exotic animal at the zoo. The car had become Wilson's cage. Brown eyes darted from side to side, finally meeting House's cold blue gaze.

House flipped his mobile open and pressed it against the glass. The pale blue light was reflected in red-rimmed eyes so dark they looked black. Wilson's face was drawn; he looked as if he were going to be sick.

"License and registration, please."

Wilson took a breath to steady himself before reaching for the door handle. The cool winter air greeted him roughly, pouring itself over his skin, numbing him.

"My car ran out of gas." Wilson's voice was harsh; as he opened his mouth the cold poured down his throat and lowered his already cool body temperature. He shivered slightly under his thin dress shirt.

"They tend to do that when you leave them running for, oh, say……five hours.

"Come on. You need to sleep."

Wilson's eyes stayed glued to the ground, mirroring the black cement beneath his shoes. He climbed into House's car, grateful for the warmth that enveloped him. House got in and drove the short distance back to his apartment without saying another word. They arrived to déjà vu; neither man moved to leave the car. The collective unwillingness of both men's refusal to make the first move created a heavy stillness; engendered a sense of being stuck in neutral.

As usual, House was the first break the silence.

"Come on." The words were impatient, tossed carelessly over his shoulder as he moved carefully from the car. Wilson obeyed. He shivered as he entered the apartment; he couldn't force the cold from his body.

"Come here," House ordered, flicking those long fingers carelessly at Wilson.

Wilson's legs moved without his permission. He stood in front of House, watched as the older man assessed his body, looked at his hands, and placed a finger on his lips. He couldn't stop shivering; the cold seemed to come from inside him.

House peered at Wilson, taking in the man's blue lips, shaking form, and purple nail beds. The fingers that lingered on the younger man's cool lips were withdrawn; Wilson's saliva lingered on House's thumb.

House turned away and Wilson stood static, wanting to follow but unwilling to actually do so. The destination was the bathroom, which House disappeared into, though he made no move to close the door. A squeak echoed out into the hall, then the loud pounding of water against tile.

"Wilson!" House's voice carried no instruction, but it was an order. But Wilson couldn't bring himself to move. He was at rock bottom; he waded through a thicket of contradictory feelings and thoughts. His life was no longer under any form of control; an invisible puppeteer pulled his strings this way and that, keeping him guessing at every step. The foundation of his schema was crumbling, leaving him questioning every fact he had taken for granted before this night.

Like the fact that for thirty-eight years prior, he had considered himself straight.

The pressure of House's hand on his woke Wilson.

House was silent as he led his friend into the bathroom. This quiet was maintained as he began to unbutton Wilson's shirt, meeting the dark eyes questioningly as he did so. When they acquiesced willingly, and cold hands didn't move to stop him, he continued until Wilson stood shirtless in front of him.

Wilson closed his eyes. House's gaze was too much for him; it was too intense, too knowing. He brought his hands up to his own waist and tugged at his belt. It slid through the loops of his trousers. He paused, waiting for House's hands to finish what they had started. They appeared, but in the wrong place. They were pressed flat on his back.

_ When did he—  
_

But before the synapses in Wilson's mind could finish the thought, the hands moved, and Wilson's body focused on their endeavors. A finger traced a line down his back, then stopped and drew another, perpendicular line. The lines connected, and Wilson's mind supplied the image of a Y.

_ He's spelling something.  
_

The finger was removed, then touched down again, moving up past Wilson's right shoulder blade. The sensation sent tingles through Wilson, making him lean into House like a cat getting its stomach stroked. The finger created an arch between the shoulders, coming down just before the left blade. It traveled down towards the lower back, then returned to its origin.

O.

The tracing continued as the shower ran; steam swirled around the men, slowly warming Wilson's half-naked body. A 'U' came after the O, then an R. An E followed, but fingers weren't being used anymore. When it first made contact with his back, Wilson was unable to identify the warm, slightly wet object that traced an E onto his neck, right where his shoulders met. The scrape of teeth as the letter ended put an end to his confusion.

"You're," Wilson whispered.

The last few letters were quickly traced onto Wilson's increasingly flushed skin.

"Safe. You're safe."

Wilson turned, finally able to meet House's eyes without shame or reticence.

"I think I am."


End file.
